Tuesday, April 15, 2008

I think I have to apologize. Not for ratting out my fellow riders for their wackiness or using their lives as fodder for my own (and possibly your) amusement.

No, I have to apologize because they have been the most boring lot of working stiffs for the past month. Nothing is happening with them. So, I am left to conclude that they are onto me. And they think the only way for me to stop writing about them is to stop talking completely.

The mornings are quiet. Eerily quiet. So quiet that I recently contemplated a move to a different vanpool in search of new material. This plan was promptly abandoned when my faithful blog PR manager said quite simply, "There's something to be said for the devil you know."

I'll keep burying my head in my book and eavesdropping for the slightest hint of amusing anecdote, but until then, we'll all just have to wait.

Thursday, April 3, 2008

My husband graciously offered to drop me off at the van this morning and how was this generosity repaid? That's right, with a big fat speeding ticket.

Let it be said that my 8-minute commute to the van in the morning is a breakneck exercise in short stopping, weaving, and excessive acceleration. So I naturally feel terrible that my spouse was the one clipped by Fate when she was clearly gunning for me.

As soon as we experienced the simultaneous "Oh-shit-are-they-pulling-me-over-no-they're-not-pulling-me-over-maybe-no-yes-no-no-noooo-Dammit!" stomach drop at the sight red and blue lights advancing on us, we knew we'd been had.

Never one to go down without a fight, I leaned toward the portly officer Gonzales as the million-watt searchlight from his cruiser flooded our car and asked, "Could we please do this in the Target parking lot, I have about 2 minutes to catch my ride to work."

He let us go but kept my husband's license and told him to come right back. I took this as a good sign, maybe officer Gonzales wasn't a complete bastard and he would give a break to a guy who was just giving his wife a lift to her vanpool. After all, it's not as though we were throwing empty vodka bottles out our windows or doing lines off the dashboard, we were just traveling a hair above the speed limit.

No dice. As I sat with the phone on my lap anticipating the message that we got off with a warning, the phone rang and my hopes were dashed: "Yeahp," was all he said.

So, officer Gonzales you glorified meter maid wanker, as I spend the first few hours of my day working (i.e. updating this blog) to pay for the speeding ticket you wrote this morning, I have nothing but contempt for you and your ill-fitting polyester trousers.

As for my spouse whose day has surely been shot to hell and who still has to face his own commute, a little ditty to put it all in perspective: